Quartet
by nienors
Summary: Their unspoken camaraderie is as certain as the clouds in the dreary Parisian sky. oddly EE.


**QUARTET**

-

I. _Prelude_

Their relationship, if nothing, had been a succession of glances along the same block of Paris. Onlookers could describe them as _les extrémités_: the wealthy student with excessive ambition and the dirty girl with little direction in her cold life. It was most unusual, the daily interaction of two different societies. Hers of pain, madness, and her father's thievery, contrasting with his extravagant speeches, meticulous studies, and whispered talk of uprisings. They shared only the dark street and fleeting seconds.

One night, as he passed her, he wondered what she thought of the filth. She always appeared to be shivering, although it had been a balmy spring, and was clearly malnourished and deranged, but he was still curious to known what passed through her mind. Could she be rallied? What did this girl, component of the common people, think of her oppression and poverty?

It then struck him that perhaps she knew nothing else besides the lice on her head and the chills that ran down her spine. She lived in a world tainted by hunger and insanity. She was a stranger, he concluded, to justice.

These ideas became the thesis of his next speech for the streets, and her face blended into his memory as he walked away.

He would not think of her again until the next night when he ambled through the slums.

On the other side of the street, whenever her whole attention was not claimed by thoughts of Monsieur Pontmercy, she watched the young man walk by. It was always at the same time, same walk, and she found herself envious of the young man. All she really wanted was to feel her beloved's arms around her and perhaps a bowl of soup. The usual student, she decided, probably had one _grisette_ for each night of the week and more soup than he knew what to do with.

She could tell, by the books always tucked under his arms, that he was a student—like Marius! Perhaps they were friends! Yet the gamine saw the slight swagger in his step—unlike Marius. Living in the vicinity of Patron-Minette had given her an eye for wrath and the terrible. She knew one would give him trouble.

Never would she even dream of calling out to him—to beg, to offer, or even to give a mere greeting. If she were to be truthful, she would at least be able to admit that he frightened her—yet at the same time fascinated her (though he was a mere silhouette compared to her beloved Marius). As long as she remained in the shadows of the city, lost in her reveries, he would not speak a word to her.

-

II. _Prospects_

His day's efforts had been hopeless.

Lack of sleep had caused him to not be as sharp as he would have preferred in his morning classes, and in the evening… Grantaire had decided to try a new creation of drinks, causing the drunk to be more disruptive than normal.

Enjolras frowned when he heard the angry shouts echoing of the walls of the buildings. He glanced around the corner, and saw the usual gamine, except she was not sitting in a heap of rags.

She was tall, yet nowhere near the height of the man next to her, who kept his hand clamped upon her shoulder. They were too far down the side street for the student to see her trembles, yet he had little trouble hearing the mocking words.

"I won't say a word to your father, but you better—why the long face? Care for another go? No? Until tomorrow night then, mademoiselle."

Harsh footsteps faded into the night, and the man disappeared.

Enjolras watched the beggar slowly sink to the ground with one final sigh. She burst into a series of harsh coughs.

He didn't immediately notice her brown eyes upon him, but when he did, he did not find himself so surprised. It was their nightly rite, a sort of practice. He had just witnessed different kind of ritual, which appeared to be far from innocent and coincidental.

The revolutionary was caught off guard when she stood up shakily, and began to walk in his direction.

Steps resonated throughout the alleyway, and then there she was, standing in front of him. She breathed heavily, her head bowed down in apparent shame. They stood there in silence, as contradictory as ever.

_She could be dying of consumption_, he thought, _and all else that's wrong in the world._

He reflected on her quiet actions, suddenly wondering why she had come to him. Did she think of him as a customer for the night? Could it be sorrow? Was it trust? Enjolras had never seen her as the frail type, but as she let out a concealed cough, he saw her as she was. He could see her weaknesses through the shadows, frailty she could never show to that man, just one of many tormentors. She was still a young girl, not matter how resilient she pretended to be.

Behind her, in the distance, he saw the moon sitting in the sky above Paris.

"Monsieur?" she coughed, her voice low and hoarse.

Immediately, he felt fury: hatred of the corrupt for ignoring the many like her, and hatred of himself for not possessing the willpower to show the most brief sign of compassion. Determined, his hand found its way into his pocket, and felt the cool touch of several francs. If he were to know her as anything more than the usual gamine... he would deceive himself into thinking that she mattered more than the others. She was just the same, but he was not the kind of person to feel storms of intimacy with another. Lucien Enjolras had only sensed the lightening a few times in his life, and had never expected the next incident to be with one Eponine Jondrette.

Then again, she was already different from the rest.

"Is this pity?" She asked boldly when he dropped the money into her hands. He supposed that her mystified conscience told her this was wrong, but that the delightful weight of the coins would persuaded her.

Without thinking, his gloved hand brushed the side of her dirty face. He watched her eyes flicker to his extended hand, both of their curiosities now replaced with unspeakable questions.

"This is _égalité_."

A moment passed and their nights ended how they always did. Enjolras walked away.

-

III. _Oubliette_

The June air hung lazily in the night, letting the distant sound of possible gunshots ring through the dark. The lonely apartments cast angular shadows upon the desolate ground. The same desolate ground where she slept and he strode, but they vacated their respective different positions for their respectively different causes. She left to die with Marius; he left in hopes of democracies and revolutions; the gunshots rained on.

There was a moment of silence, maybe filled with the quiet gasp of a dying girl. The night grew darker, and their corner remained bare except for the passing breeze.

-

IV. _Aftermath_

It was different here.

Eponine smiled to herself, and continued to trace the stars in the cloudless sky with her index finger. She still let out an occasional tremble, yet her surroundings were much improved. She was no longer limited too the dreary Parisian slums or haunted by hunger, lice or filth. Her mind was still frayed by the edges, but worked somewhat sensibly once more. She simply felt cold, as if she were dying all over again in this empty Purgatory.

The world was only black and white. She could see the meadow's floor through her ghostly hands, and could feel a light breeze run through the tall grasses. All was quiet, and the most Eponine wanted to do was lie down on the earth of the ghosts and sleep. Yet there is no slumber to be found for the dead.

She looked up when familiar footsteps echoed through the valley. She held her breath.

Had Marius come to join her as she had originally planned? Perhaps, there were still chances to be happy. If her heart had still been beating, it would have fluttered in delight.

She first saw the revolutionary from a distance. The figure walked closer, and her gamine's eyes narrowed in on the faded shred of flag around his arm. She blinked when she recognized the usual student, yet once she recalled the weight of his money in her hand, Eponine was not all that surprised.

"Good evening, mademoiselle."

The clarity of his voice caused her to let out a slight shudder. He looked towards the darkened sky, and then back down to where she sat on the ground.

"The barricades…Monsieur Marius—is he dead?"

"I didn't see."

He stared at her when she let out a suppressed shriek, hitting the ground with the palms of her hands. She burst into a rambling tirade, Enjolras catching only enough words to understand. She had loved him, and had planned to die with him ("_Monsieur Marius! Marius! Marius!_"). The pity returned, along with the same impulse that had touched the side of her face.

"It appears as if we cannot escape our traditions, even in death… or whatever this may be." He paused, and offered out his transparent hand. "Come, mademoiselle. We should find the others."

Now it was her turn to stare at his open hand, inviting her to take hold and walk with him. She blindly trusted her instincts with one final exhale, let him lead her towards whatever possible salvation.


End file.
